


Gulo Gulo

by Hoodoo



Category: The A-Team (2010), Wolverine (Comics)
Genre: Loneliness, M/M, Male Slash, Quick and Dirty Sex, Wolverine in a cage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 13:15:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2271072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoodoo/pseuds/Hoodoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a kink meme prompt way back in 2012: The (movie) A-Team meets Wolverine. Given mostly free rein on this prompt, here is the result.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

Of all the bars Face had ever dragged them to, this was the worst.

Granted, there wasn’t  much choice when the town was nothing more than a rutted road with a smattering of buildings on either side, trying to keep the forest from encroaching back in on its rightful territory, but still.

The place had a goddamn _cage_ in the middle of it, where a dance floor would be at a club in the United States.

B.A. took one look at the chain link enclosure and beelined for a barstool as far away from the ring as possible. He’d stretched the faith he’d found in prison so it’d fit more comfortably into the fugitive lifestyle as much as he dared; he wouldn’t push it further just to prove something or win money.

He told Face that.

Faceman, who’d taken in the homemade bleacher seating and ring clouded with cigarette smoke with the bright eyes of a conman who wants to work a crowd, barely acknowledged the bigger man until Murdock poked him in the ribs.

“Yeah, B.A., sure. Wouldn’t dream of it,” the conman answered distractedly, and B.A. thought he should have asked for something big and awesome since Face would have agreed to anything.

Murdock leaned close into Face’s personal space to whisper something. It was too close, even if most of the people here were French-Canadian, and B.A. advised the two of that. He may personally be fine with whatever relationship they had, but that didn’t mean everyone in the world—especially those in low-down dive bars catering to loggers—would be.

Murdock looked up guiltily, his eyes wide; Face reached quickly to squeeze the pilot’s thigh to soothe him. They both nodded that they understood.

Hannibal hadn’t joined them at the bar. He’d wandered near the cage. B.A. knew he’d seem casual but was categorizing everything in this environment: the exits, the people yelling to start the fight, who was drinking, who was drunk, who was carrying a weapon. Nothing escaped his attention, and every second that clever mind was working the angles.

The barkeep slammed down three slightly smudged glasses in front of them and poured. B.A. grimaced; alcohol wasn’t his or Murdock’s thing, but when in Rome . . .

Hannibal didn’t join them. He’d made his way up into the bleachers and serenely smoked his cigar while the crowd around him stomped their feet and shouted and pitched empty—but sometimes half-full—beer bottles at the cage so that brown shards of shattered glass rained down.

The noise in the place grew to a fevered pitch when a man stepped up into the ring with a megaphone.

“Gentlemen! And ladies,” he added, although B.A. would have been hard pressed to tell which of the audience were ladies, “tonight we have a surprise! A returning champion! An undefeated man, an animal! Who will topple his reign as king of the cage? Who will dare to come forward and challenge . . . the _Wolverine?”_

It was surprising that the shouts from people could get even louder.

B.A. continued to keep his head down. If he didn’t look, then no one could pick him as a potential opponent. Face, however, elbowed him. When the bigger man slammed back his whiskey in a ferocious movement, the conman let him be. Face and Murdock shared a private conversation that the alcohol he’d had didn’t yet dampen; B.A. heard, “look at him” and “holy shit he’s hot” and “not as hot as you” and some muffled giggles that demonstrated his warning that they should play it cool because they weren’t in a gay bar had fallen on deaf ears.

B.A. looked over his shoulder. Through the crowd and smoke he caught glimpses of a man in flannel with wild hair resting his head on the chain link of the cage. The mass of people undulated too much however, with their pushings and urgings of someone to take the challenge, and he quickly lost sight of the man.

He tapped the bar impatiently to signal the barkeep for another shot.

 

 

 

 


	2. 2

As relaxed as he appeared with his legs crossed at the ankles and taking leisurely drags on his cigar, Hannibal was tight as a spring. When the proclaimed champion—the _Wolverine—_ leaned heavily against the metal of the cage, he caught his breath and covered it with another pull on the cigar, holding the smoke in his lungs until they burned and he had himself back under control again.

When he exhaled, the Wolverine lifted his head. The man in the cage’s eyes locked on Hannibal’s for a split second, and then dragged themselves away as the pitch of the crowd intensified.

Some man, a brave or foolhardy or suicidal man, climbed the two stairs into the ring and said he’d fight this guy.

His friends spurred him on with whoops and hollers. The rest of the crowd joined in and betting started. Hannibal remained very still even as people reached over and around him to make their wagers with others in the crowd.

The announcer hurried them through their wagers. He made some announcements through the megaphone about “anything goes” and “winner take all”, but no one, including the two men in the cage, paid him much mind. The challenger shook himself and stretched and threw a few warm-up punches in the air; the shorter man the announcer nicknamed Wolverine continued to rest his head against the chain link.

When he didn’t turn around quickly enough once the announcer started the round, the challenger rabbit punched him in the back of the head and taunted him with slurs of “runt” and “half-breed”.

The shorter man finally faced him, and earned a solid blow to his jaw that took him to one knee.

Hannibal clamped his cigar between his teeth and leaned forward as the cheering crowd surged as one towards their evening’s bloody entertainment.

 

* * *

 

In spite himself, B.A. watched the fight. He’d seen enough illegal cage matches growing up; he didn’t need to watch this massacre, but Face and Murdock were on their feet. He overheard Face advising,

“Work the body! Work the body—not the head, idiot!”

As if the fool in the ring would hear and heed the recommendation.

Murdock was laughing at his lover, caught up in the energy of the spectacle.

B.A. felt sick.

 

* * *

 

The challenger shook his hand from the blinding pain it’d suffered punching the guy in the face. The shorter man still hadn’t regained his feet, so he aimed a steel-toed boot at his abdomen instead. It caught him squarely and the man called Wolverine dropped, coughing and holding his stomach.

Quickly the challenger skipped around behind him and landed a kick to his lower back, roughly where a kidney would be, and Wolverine arched in agony. Now his coughing sprayed blood on the canvas floor of the cage.

Grinning, the challenger strutted around the confines of the cage. He continued to taunt the down man, asking him to get up, telling him to make it a real fight; that these people came here to see a show! He paused in front of Wolverine again, two steps away, and asked the crowd if he should finish it now? Kick him unconscious, or haul his sorry ass to his feet and uppercut him to submission?

The people roared in response.

 

* * *

 

An ash fell from the forgotten cigar in Hannibal’s mouth and burned the sensitive skin on the back of his hand. But for removing the cigar from his mouth, Hannibal ignored it.

 

* * *

 

Cockily, the man standing in the ring took a theatrical step forward, pulling his dominant foot back as if he was making to punt a football. He aimed for Wolverine’s abdomen once again, to incapacitate him and finish this so-called fight.

Just as the toe of his boot made contact, Wolverine grabbed the man’s foot and twisted it, throwing the man to the canvas and snapping his ankle in the same motion.

Even before the challenger could scream in pain, Wolverine was up and on him, landing one, two, three, four lightning fast punches to the man’s face. His opponent was insensible before the last blow fell, and never made a sound.

The crowd had fallen shocked silent at the speed of this turn of events.

Wolverine sat back on his heels and wiped the same hand he’d used to finish the fight across his mouth. The unconscious man’s blood smeared with his own. He spit, got to his feet, and kicked open the chain link door to leave the cage.

No one, not even the announcer, stopped him.

 

* * *

 

B.A. couldn’t see through the mass of people to know exactly what had happened, but Murdock sat down heavily on the stool beside him and tugged a stunned-silent Face down too. Once again the “not a gay bar, don’t advertise your relationship” advise went unheeded as Murdock held tightly to Face’s hand and the two men leaned together for mutual support, and Face pressed a kiss to the side of the pilot’s head.

Men getting beaten senseless for no reason other than “because it’s there” left a bad taste in good men’s mouths.

B.A. figured he didn’t need to know exactly what carnage had happened in the cage. Sound was beginning to creep back into the bar, but there wasn’t enough yet to cover the noises of a body—dead or unconscious, bodies sounded the same—being dragged off the floor of the ring.

He glanced up and didn’t notice Hannibal in the seat the older man had found in the bleachers, but B.A. still couldn’t see through the crowd, so he didn’t worry about it.


	3. 3

Hannibal eased his way through the revelry. The back of his hand stung from its new burn mark; he shook it but didn’t attend to it. He hurried as quickly as he could out the side door of the bar into the snow-filled alley between it and the next building.

The cold air was sharp compared to the thick confined air in the bar. He kept his cigar in his mouth as he glanced this way and that before he finally caught sight of a shorter, hulking figure down the way.

Now he didn’t rush, but walked closer. He also didn’t reach out for the other man.

“Smith,” Wolverine said in a low voice.

Hannibal stopped a step away.

 

* * *

 

 After an oddly tense moment passed, Wolverine asked, “What’re you doin’ here, Smith?”

 “I’d ask you the same thing, Logan.”

 The shorter man’s eyes flashed and his upper lip pulled away from his teeth in a warning snarl at the familiarity.

 Hannibal didn’t flinch.

 “What are you doing beating the shit out of men who can barely walk upright?” he asked quietly. “This is beneath you.”

 Hannibal kept his face carefully neutral while Wolverine narrowed his eyes. In a moment, though, the lines on the shorter man’s face relaxed and the threat disappeared. He just looked tired.

“I do it ta feel alive, John,” he answered honestly. “Sometimes there’s just so much fuckin’ _pain_ . . . I do it ta feel something physical, ta block out what’s inside my fuckin’ head.”

Hannibal nodded. He stooped to gather a handful of snow, deftly wrapping it in a handkerchief procured from his back pocket, before pressing it between his palms to melt it. Once the cloth was dripping, he moved even closer to the other man. He didn’t ask, but wiped away the blood dried on his face anyway. Wolverine stood statue-still during the gentle wash.

The cleaning extended to the knuckles of his left hand too, the hand he’d punished his challenger with unforgiving punches. It was no surprise to Hannibal the skin on the other man’s hand was unbroken.

“At least you didn’t use your claws and teach him a final lesson,” he remarked lightly.

Wolverine managed half a smile. “People’d run me outta town if they knew I was a mutie, no matter how much money they make on me.”

Hannibal took a pull on his cigar, and as Wolverine cocked his head and lifted his chin a millimeter, the taller man offered it to him. Wolverine took a drag as well.

“I was surprised ta see you up there, in the stands,” he said, and smoke escaped his mouth while he talked. He asked again, “What’re you doin’ here?”

“Federal fugitives,” Hannibal replied, with a shrug. “Sometimes it gets too close for comfort down in the States, so we hop north and lay low for a bit.”

“Huh.”

 If Wolverine didn’t want to believe that, Hannibal didn’t care. He watched the other man’s face be illuminated with each pull on the cigar.

“You’re hurt.”

Hannibal had almost forgotten the burn wound on the back of his hand.

“Some of us don’t have the same miraculous healing that you do.”

" _Miraculous,”_ Wolverine repeated, grinding the word out to make it sound like a curse. He reached out and with as much care as Hannibal had taken to clean the gore off him, he took the other man’s injured hand.

Wolverine examined the small burn.      

Hannibal let him turn his hand this way and that, and only winced a little when Wolverine’s finger brushed over the open wound. The hand that held his was broader and callused but gentle, and at the wince, Wolverine stopped.

Before Hannibal could say or do anything, Wolverine leaned down and licked the back of his hand. The contact stung the exposed nerve endings of the wound, but saliva soothed it.

When the shorter man looked back up at him, Hannibal saw that his pupils were dilated, making his eyes dark and more feral than normal. He was breathing through his mouth now too, short, hot pants that condensed to steam in the cold air.

Hannibal own breath caught in his throat.

“There are other ways to feel alive,” Hannibal said. His voice was so low it would barely be called a whisper, but he knew the man in front of him could pick up every syllable.

Wolverine made a deep, deep noise in his throat and stretched up to capture Hannibal’s mouth with his own.


	4. 4

A quick fuck in a dingy, snow-filled alley of a no-name town with a man closer to wild than not?

Hannibal would have laughed if desperation hadn’t welled inside him. It would have been easy to laugh if Wolverine’s tongue wasn’t halfway down his throat.

Instead he clutched at the stockier man, his fingers hitching through uncombed and tangled hair to prevent the kiss stopping too early. Hannibal thrust his tongue into the other man’s mouth and explored the canines that were too sharp to be simply human teeth. Wolverine was a mutant; even his dentistry advertised it.

As rapid and eager as their first contact was, Wolverine was careful not to injure Hannibal with those wicked teeth. He dropped the still smoldering cigar in the snow. Logan had never lost his humanity with this man during any other stolen moment they’d ever shared, and tonight was no different.

It was still frantic, however, and they were both wearing too much clothing to be comfortable. That was okay; this was Canada after all—heavy coats were needed. This wasn’t the time or place to waste precious moments with a teasing undressing. Wolverine broke off to work the buckles on both their belts while Hannibal continued to kiss and bite at his ear and neck.

He made an impatient little sound when Wolverine freed his hard cock and stroked it with the same callused hand that held his just a bit ago. Hannibal fumbled a moment and delved into the other man’s pants to do the same.

Wolverine groaned as he gave a quick tug; Hannibal moaned,

_“Logan—“_

 and awkward position with hands down the front of the other’s pants or not, they kissed again.

“What do you want, John?” Wolverine growled when they separated by millimeters for air.

What did he want? He wanted Logan to pick him up and fuck him. He wanted his back against the wooden wall of the building behind him, and his legs around Logan’s waist while he was being fucked. Although Logan was shorter, he was stronger and could easily handle Hannibal’s entire weight. They’d done it before. Hannibal wanted to be taken, wanted another man to claim him, wanted to be filled.

He told Wolverine all that, including being supported entirely by the other man, in a voice that was flavored with longing, but without a hint of shame.

Wolverine chuckled, and Hannibal tilted his head to put his lips on the front of his throat, to feel the vibration of it. His fingers dipped inside the flannel collar and came in contact with a metal chain.

The discovery made him pause a second. “You still wear your dog tags?” he asked, sliding his tongue into the hollow between the other man’s collar bones.

Wolverine shuddered. “You’re still wearin’ yours.”

Now Hannibal chuckled too. “Old habits.”

“Nobody older than me.”

Hannibal’s chuckle stopped and he looked the shorter man in the eye. “I want you to fuck me, Logan. Now.”

“It’s too cold for you ta strip outta your pants, han’some. Turn around an’ let’s see what we can do.”

It was second best, here in this alleyway, but what choice did Hannibal have? They couldn’t rent a room, even for an hour. It was this or not getting anything close to what he wanted.

Hannibal made to turn.

Wolverine caught him and kissed him hard, re-finding his cock and pulling it so expertly Hannibal saw stars. When he stopped, Wolverine’s smile was self-satisfied but didn’t cross into arrogant.

“Turn around, John,” he said again, and this time, it didn’t seem like it was second best.

* * *

 

Hannibal turned and dug the only thing that could be considered as use for lube out of his pocket: A tube of chapstick. If Logan wouldn’t allow him to be unclothed for this, there was no way he’d let him insist on no slick at all . . .

Wolverine chuckled again as Hannibal passed it back. “That’s a new one,” he explained, but Hannibal wasn’t offended.

He pushed his jeans and underpants down to the tops of his knees and leaned forward.

When Wolverine’s first and second fingers slid down the small of his back and slipped into the cease of his ass, Hannibal dropped his head. Those fingers ghosted over the tight muscle hidden there, and he moaned. There was a pause, and the fingers returned with more pressure and purpose. The chapstick did its job and eased the entry.

Hannibal found himself trembling; he didn’t know if it was the chill or anticipation.

“S’okay, John,” Wolverine whispered behind him, “you’re doin’ fine, you’re so han’some—gonna be good—“

If Hannibal ever told anyone that the man known as Wolverine was gentle and sweet-talked his lays, a rumor would spread that John Hannibal Smith was getting dotty in his old age, he was sure.

When the prep was done there was a brief pause, Hannibal braced his palms against the rough wooden planks of the building before him. The heat of the man behind him made him bite his lip, but no amount of teeth-held lip could contain the gasping moan that erupted when Wolverine pushed forward into him.

A hissing groan announced that it was good for Wolverine too, but he didn’t move for a moment. Substitute lube wasn’t something to try pounding away at; he gave the man in front of him a chance to relax and feel more comfortable.

Only when Hannibal glanced over his shoulder and made some noise—it could have been the word please or yes, all Wolverine’s sensitive ears truly caught was the sibilant sound at the end—Wolverine took that as permission to start.

As he rocked his hips, a definite, “Oh, _Logan!_ Oh _god—“_ made him smile through his own pantings.

Hannibal pushed back as Wolverine pushed forward. The achingly pleased sounds from Hannibal’s mouth turned him on even more, and he groaned in time with the thrusts. He could go a long time if that was what his partner wanted or needed, but it was obvious Hannibal was looking for something fast and hard, so Wolverine accommodated.

He reached around the man in front of him and wrapped his hand around Hannibal’s cock. Still greasy from the crushed makeshift lubricant, his fingers and palm easily tugged and twisted until Hannibal was almost sobbing from the pleasure.

In a very short amount of time, Wolverine felt the other man tense and ejaculate into his hand and onto the snow below them.

The shuddering and involuntary clenching around his own cock tipped him over the edge as well, and he came with a guttural sound, pushing instinctively as deep as possible into his partner. He gasped and shook, and only when Hannibal peeled one finger off his hip did he release the tight hold he had on the other man.

His refractory period was, of course, much less time than a normal man’s, and he could and would have continued, but Hannibal groaned and eased away from him. For a few seconds the taller man caught his breath leaning upright against the wall. Wolverine pulled up and fastened his pants and waited.

When Hannibal finally turned and his fingers worked his own belt to put everything back in place, Wolverine stepped close again.

He kissed Hannibal.

 


	5. Chapter 5

It was much less fiery this time; only a small ember burned in Hannibal’s gut instead of an immediate flare. His cold-stiffened fingers trailed through the other man’s dark hair. Hair that should be at least peppered with white, if not completely silver like his own. Wolverine was older than anyone had the right to be, and he still looked and carried himself like a man in the prime of his life. Hannibal aged exponentially each time they had their random encounters, while Logan was always the same.

 “What are you doin’ here, John?” Wolverine asked for the third time, the time to tell the truth.

“I wanted to feel alive too,” he confessed. “I’ve got two men in there who fell for each other, who complete each other in a way that I never could, no matter how I much I wished. I don’t begrudge them!” he insisted quickly, and Wolverine could tell that was no lie. “I just watched one of them grow up in the military to be a man I wish I had. I watched one of them work through a mental maze and find his way out.

“I would have welcomed either of them with open arms, but I’ve hidden who I really am so deep neither of them could see the forest for the trees. I’m just old man Hannibal to them.”

Wolverine snorted. Whether he agreed with Hannibal’s self-assessment or whether he thought Hannibal was still lying to himself and couldn’t admit he was too damn scared to have a normal, steady relationship with another man, he didn’t say.

Hannibal was smart enough to figure the two ways it could go—Wolverine knew he was—but he didn’t question the noise. He only allowed himself a bit of a smile that as old as he was, Logan would always consider him a boy.

“What about the other guy with you?”

Hannibal wasn’t surprised by that question either. Of course Logan would know he wasn’t alone here. He could smell his men on him; they shared hotel rooms and the van together! Of course Logan could differentiate between four different men!

“B.A.?” Hannibal asked. “He’s a good man. Trustworthy, loyal, smart . . . gruff and formidable, but . . .  accepting. He puts up with us ‘crazy fools’, as he calls us. He’s a good man.”

“Good enough for John Hannibal Smith?” Wolverine questioned, squeezing hard enough that Hannibal felt the pressure on his hip through his thick coat.

“B.A.’s straight.”

“Huh. He tell you that?”

“ . . . no.”

“Maybe he’s as straight as me, John. Wouldn’t that be somethin’.”

“Something, all right,” Hannibal had to admit, and wondered if he truly knew his mechanic. He was awfully comfortable with Face and Murdock hanging on each other all the time. More than most stereotypical military men . . .

Wolverine stretched upward once more and pecked him on the lips, breaking his internal thoughts.

“Good seein’ you, John. If the military comes askin’, I never saw you.”

Hannibal chuckled. “Same here.”

Wolverine lifted his hand and walked back down the alleyway, towards the street.

That’s how it always was, between them, Hannibal thought. A quick meeting, nothing permanent . . . hasty comfort where they could grab it, then off their separate ways.

Even with the name “Logan” on his lips, Hannibal didn’t call after him. He watched until the cold darkness swallowed the figure walking away from him, then went back in the same door he’d exited just a short time ago.


	6. 6

He found Face, Murdock and B.A. still at the bar. B.A. was more than a little tipsy; for a big man, he didn’t hold his liquor well because he didn’t drink often. Hannibal and Murdock slung his arms over their shoulders and Face directed them all back out onto the street and to the van.

Murdock drove, which would have enraged B.A. if he was capable of rage at the moment. The pilot and Face laughed and leaned over the gear shift to kiss once in a while as Murdock figured out the best way to get to the nearest hotel.

B.A. groaned and held his head.

“Are those two fools singing?” he demanded.

“No, not yet,” Hannibal replied, shaking out a few aspirin from a bottle to hand to him.

B.A. accepted the pills. “What a crazy place, Hannibal,” he said, taking the medicine without water and leaning back in his chair. He covered his face with a blanket to help drown out the two up front. “Where in the hell did Face find a bar with a damn _cage_ in the middle?”

“Face didn’t find it,” Hannibal answered quietly, so not to disturb the man trying to ward off a hangover. “I did.”

 

_fin._


End file.
